So he left the police station after his PO checkin and went in the direction of the house where he now officially lived. He got about 12 miles out of Rockford and took a left on South Keith Rd. He pulled to the shoulder and stopped. He needed a loose plan. Something that would work, but allowed room for improvisation. Over-planning would fuck this up, for sure. He got the feeling from Bud that he was pretty bright. He knew Al was bright. He didn’t have any other cop problems that he knew of. From the research he gotten on Al, he was willing to bet he wasn’t overly connected in Chicago. That, plus the lack of retaliation for the ass-beating Al had received, pointed to little or no ground support. The cop wasn’t tied into any big shit. He seemed actually interested in helping Eric.
Eric still had three people on the “drunk party” list. There was only one of those three who would stay put, no matter what. Marty. That fucker would stay glued to his seat. He’d probably buy some heavy security, but he was too invested in the theatre, unless he wanted to just leave and start over somewhere else. Eric didn’t think Marty would do that. He’d wait and try to deal. He could lay down some insurance on that. He made a note to give Marty a call. That left Gill and Sheena. They would have to go down together. As soon as Al and Bud got their heads together and started to get into Eric’s business, they’d figure things out, as well. So he really needed to kill Al, Gill, Sheena, and Bud at the same time. Bud was on his way out. He might figure it out on his first trip. Best to snag him today. That meant either hunting the other three separately or trying to lure everybody out to one spot and getting rid of the whole mess. Then he’d have a day or so to get Marty. Maybe a few more. He’d just have to live as Lenny the whole time, but that was OK. He could do that with no problem.
So, snag the cop, call Al and tell him he had to bring Sheena and Gill out to his place in Malta, Illinois. He had a small tractor there and could do a lot of fast a furious work. It was the property he didn’t want to buy from the ex-pot farmer to begin with. He wouldn’t come back to it after this. He’d probably get caught, anyway. He was going to get all the pretty people who had put him away all those years ago, then he’d take himself out before doing life inside. If it looked inevitable, he’d kill himself. That plan at least took some pressure off. Plans where you had to get safely away were harder to negotiate. Terminal plans were easier, because you can sacrifice yourself to gain your goal. Yes. It was much simpler.
Without even noticing, he’d taken one giant step forward. Mother may I? He had stepped from the world of could be to should be, the world of maybe to definitely, the world of no to the world of yes. Eric Bannerman had started his endgame, and in the endgame, sacrifice was as normal and necessary as breathing.
57
“Yeah. I got hung up a little, but I’m on my way. You know how shit happens.” Bud was just getting on the Lakeshore; traffic was gonna be a total whore. He was talking to Eric, who sounded as cool as a spring breeze.
“Hey, no worries. We can play it two ways. We can postpone till tomorrow; Lord knows I have lots of stuff I can do out here, even by lamplight. Or I can work till you get in, and we can get started then. If you’re crashing out here, it doesn’t make a tinker’s damn, so same thing, either way.”
“You’re pretty easy-going. I should get you to teach my wife some of that Zen.”
“Oh, my Chicago comes out now and again. Side effect of being a Midwest boy, yeah?”
“Yeah. I may be as late as 7:30, if that’s OK.”
“Oh, yeah. I got some ribs cut thin. They’re still bone-on, so they’re like meat popsicles. The potatoes just need a reheat and the salad is, well, it’s salad. Why don’t you just commit to using the guest room? It’s no problem, and it might be nice to have some overnight company. My PO says I need to socialize. He’s like my frggin’ shrink. I’m not saying you’ve thought this or care, but I’m totally hetero, so no worries in that department. I think the lock on your bedroom door still works.”
Bud laughed. “All perfect, man. Hey, Eric, not cop to con but person to person, I appreciate the hospitality. Must be rough for you. Just know this is about 50% official and 50% shoot-the-shit, OK?”
“You got a deal. I’ll make sure the bed is turned down, and you may as well cancel your reservations from the road, yeah?”
“I’m on it.” He hung up and looked at his dash clock. 4:45 in the pm. It was gonna be a grind, but first step and all that bullshit. He’d call Al at 5:15 and see how things were shaking out.
He’d gone back to the station after his first trip of the day to the Rocklin area. He pulled all his paperwork on all the theatre murders, boxed them up, and put ‘em in the little wagon he drove. Then he went back up and asked himself one simple thing, Was this someone in the judge’s family carrying on the tradition, or an unrelated (highly unlikely), invested third party?
Bud pulled up to the computer and started looking through cases and cross-referencing names of dead people. There were some crosses here and intersections there, but he needed Eric’s input. There might be a connection here he just hadn’t seen.
Bud’s working theory was that Eric had done his thing, the judge’s kids got killed, the judge transferred his grief to Eric…and the theory got hazy. His current working theory was that the judge had made some ties with organized crime and had worked out something on the prepaid plan that would put Eric back in after he got out. It was a pretty fucking thin case hypothesis, but sometimes those were the best. He also looked to see if anyone had drifted through the judge’s courtroom too often with too light a sentence. He gave this up quickly. It was vast, and the judge was mean to everyone unlucky enough to pull his courtroom. That being a no-go, he looked into the judge’s local genealogy and found some stuff that was a bit more promising. The judge’s brother had a gaggle of sons. The youngest was a violent offender who had been in and out of the joint quite a few times. He might be a candidate for a paid-killer kind of thing, but he really wasn’t smart enough. He could be working with someone else. There was a brother who did something for money that he identified as “entrepreneur” on his tax info. That might be something. He got pictures of everyone he might find useful and threw in the ones who seemed like a waste of time, just for shits and giggles.
This was about the time he noticed how late it had gotten. He’d fallen into the special Bud Zone, and time had left the building. He called the chief and asked for a word. He gave him an ultra-condensed version that was even semi-true. The chief grunted approval and waved his hand like a dead fish toward the door, never looking away from the folder in his hand. Bud often thought the chief had invented multi-tasking as a way to never pay much attention to anything. He pulled onto Lakeshore Drive, and it was moving at a modest pace, which meant faster than you could jog, but slower than you could bike. Once he got out of the city, he’d make time. He might even turn on his flashers.
He called Betsy and got the message machine.
“Hey, honey! I’m heading out to Freeport. I’m spending the night out there, then coming back out here. It should be a pretty drive there and back. I’d put the danger level at one. It’s not zero, because I’m eating fresh lamb, and I’ll most likely eat way too much. Aside from that, it’ll be cool. Remember, I have my phone, but the signal might be sucky. The Gilmartins are in all night, so call them if you need help. I already put Ned on call. I love you. Give the little prince a kiss on the jaw and a sock on the nose. Keeps him tough and soft. Love you, Bets.” He hung up and searched through his CD’s for some Indian flute music. He hated the shit, but it kept him from killing people in traffic, so he listened to it when he drove in the city. Then he put his brain on neutral and started driving. If he was lucky, he’d be there by 7:30. If he was unlucky, it would be 8:30.
This thing was going to bust wide open, and when the dust settled, Bud would be standing on top of the pile of rubble that represented the corruption in this town. The flute music started, and all images of “Super-Bud” drifted away. He traded the fantasy fo
r a little peace and quiet. Not a bad trade.
58
Marty leaned over and said something to Sunny. Sunny nodded, said something back, and then made an announcement. “OK! Everyone goes but Gill, Sheena, me, Marty, and Al. Shrek, can your people neutralize what you need to, then do whatever you need to? We’re taking turns in the conference room upstairs. Just some individual talking time. We may as well be comfy and give you all some bonus time. Move carefully everyone, but move! If I have to hunt your ass, Sunny ain’t gonna be happy.”
“And when Sunny ain’t happy…” Al started
Everyone else finished, “…ain’t NOBODY happy!”
“Al, fuck you. Everyone else, fuck you, as well. I guess fuck everyone but the tech folks. You guys rule…so fuck you in a good way. Now, move it!”
There was a lot of good natured grab-assing and talking. Shrek flagged down Al. “Al.”
“Mr. Shrek. How are you tonight, good sir?”
“I had to tell you, the pig you brought me was fucking resplendent. Carlos said he’s considering leaving me if I can’t get it delivered. He’s such a little drama queen, but…”
“I know. You love him in your own, Shrek-like way. I’ll see what I can do, and I agree, it’s fucking amazing.”
“He wants ten pounds, uncut. All I could think of when he said that was the world’s biggest uncircumcised pig.”
Al roared laughter. “OK. I’ll ask someone down there if they have connections for this, or any other, uncircumcised swine. I don’t know why that’s so funny, but it sure tickles the shit out of me.”
“Al! Upstairs! Now!”
“Coming, Sunny!” He was grabbing his bags. To Shrek, “I just want you to know how much we appreciate you and your work here.”
“You know man, people say that all the time, but it is rare to really feel appreciated. Uncircumcised pig seems to turn the trick.”
“Note taken, man. Gotta jam. Wanna get out of here and go have some dinner, maybe mend a few bridges.”
“I owe you one. I mean it. And I respect my markers.” Al filed that away under “probably useful.”
“Thanks, buddy. Give Carlos a squeeze for me.”
“Will do.”
Al left and took the stairs up to the offices. Frieda was there, looking gorgeous, but exuding a rare but palpable musk of sweat and annoyance. Al came over.
“You OK, honey?”
“Maxed the fuck out. That’s how I am.”
He put his arm around her. She stiffened. He risked life and limb by staying in place until she relaxed. “Marty wants to coast along as if everything is normal. I think we need to get this Artistic/Managing Director relationship fixed about twenty-four hours ago, so let’s get it done. I don’t want to be his secretary anymore. I’m managing a very successful theatre. I also can’t believe how much money he was shorting me. He had me doing the Managing Director job PLUS a secretarial job, for a quarter of what both jobs combined make. I’d like to kick his ass.”
“You could. You might sprain that wrist using your Tae-Bo, but you’d win.” She looked at him, and for a second he thought she was gonna punch him. “Take some time to design how you want this to go long-term. I’ll hammer out a deal with Marty that’ll take us to the weekend, then we can sit with an arbitrary fourth and make it all happen.”
“You know someone? Someone good?”
Al was thinking of Edith’s ex-husband. He sounded like a prick and a shark. In other words, someone who would do great in this situation. And he was into contract law. He’d handle this pro-bono, to everyone’s satisfaction, and in record time. Al would check it out. If not, he was sure he could find someone good. He was learning more and more that, although money didn’t buy happiness, it sure did a good job keeping misery at bay.
“I’m talking to him in a couple of minutes. Write a very short list, say seven items, what you want for the next few days. Keep it succinct, and don’t be a bitch. Just what it’ll take to grease the wheels, OK?” She grabbed a legal pad. He deftly removed it from her hand and gave her a stack of Post-it notes. “Little shit to get by now, iron out all the wrinkles in a couple days. This is more of a truce than a business deal.”
She stared him down a good thirty seconds, then flashed a half a smile and started scribbling. Al waited patiently for the next thing. He didn’t know what the next thing was, but Marty would call him in, Frieda would hand him a note, his cell would ring, something. He waited, and, in eight seconds, all of them happened at once.
Al let out a little shriek. He held a finger up to the whole room and answered his phone. “Hey, baby. Literally standing in a room with five people staring at me. I’ll call you in ten to fifteen. That work?” He listened for a second. “Back at you.”
“Next?” He asked this with his eyebrows up but he was looking at Frieda. She handed him the Post-it and, looking dead at Marty, said, “This should do nicely.” She grabbed her jacket and looked at Marty. “Be a love, return the messages on the front desk, and lock up when you leave. Ask Shrek if he wants the alarm set.”
“W-w-where are you going?” Marty managed to puke this into the middle of the room.
“I’m going home.” She looked at her watch. “It’s 5:00, and I’m going home. See you lovely people tomorrow.” And just like that, Ms. Frieda Callow, daughter of a man with a sense of humor, was out the door and walking toward the arms of a Grey Goose martini.
“Excellent.” Al looked around. Sheena and Gill were still in the office, along with Sunny and Marty. “Who’s next?”
Marty was still a little stunned. “Al, darling, could you come in my office with Sunny for a moment please?”
“Sure, Marty.” He considered patting Marty on the ass as he went past, but thought Marty might be hovering on the edge of sanity right now.
Marty came in and was followed in by Sunny, who sat like she was watching her favorite cable drama. Al, like he owned the place, started mixing a drink for Marty. He stopped and looked at Sunny. “Should I make this an extra-large and put it in two glasses?”
Sunny looked at Marty and said, “Um…”
Al, sensing something sanctimonious and fairly pricky coming out of Marty’s pie-hole said, “Excellent! Who really likes to drink alone? Now, let me talk about my business while I mix, and then we can talk about your business over cocktails. Gill and Sheena can wait. We’re all still on the clock, for God’s sake.”
“Al, I’m still in charge here.”
Al stopped. “Hey, champ. I suggest you chill. You aren’t going to lose any of the power or salary that is rightfully yours at this point. As a matter of fact, you’re in the catbird seat. You’re about to get everything you’ve always wanted.” Al went back to his mixology. “I asked Frieda for a small list of what will be quid pro quo for the next few days. At the end of that, I shall bring an arbitrating third party, and we’ll work out the details of everyone’s new title and everyone’s new titular responsibilities.” He put two martini glasses in the large ice bucket to get the glass cold. “Marty, is Sunny up to speed on the new job title business?” Al asked this knowing full well that Sunny had been told; he just wasn’t sure if Marty had informed anyone. He guessed not.
“Erhm,” said Marty.
“Not precisely, but I sensed some change in the wind,” Sunny interjected.
“So right, dear.” Al was vigorously shaking the martini shaker. He plunged it into the ice, then took out the two martini glasses. “You gotta love any drink that gets its own glass. Marty has decided to take one for the team. In order to make things run more efficiently, he is going to become the Artistic Director and the Director in situ. Meaning he is the resident director. Frieda is now the Managing Director of the company. There will be a neutral third party who will work as an administrative assistant and referee.
“This list, Marty, is a brief, and I mean brief, list of requests from Frieda about what she expects from your respective jobs for the next few days.” He pulled the glasses out of the i
ce, took three drops of vermouth, and twirled them around in one of the glasses before whipping the glass briskly and sending all but the aroma of the vermouth out of the glass. He set it down, repeated the process. Then he poured off the martinis, put three large skewered olives in each; then, just to show off, he daintily peeled two long pieces of rind off of a lemon with the gentleman’s knife he kept in his jacket pocket. He rolled the rind up over the first drink, lit a lighter he had in his pocket, and ignited the small spray of lemon oil over the top of martini number one. He repeated the process then grabbed a chilled bottle of spring water for himself. He raised his bottle, saying, “Nostrovia!” They all drank.
“Oh, my God, that’s the best martini I’ve ever had.” Sunny was repeating the process of smelling, sipping, and smiling.
“Yes, technically not a martini, but the flamed lemon oil gives it a certain something. Marty?”
“Perfect, as always, Al. Grazie.”
“Now, the list here is reasonable, and I’m the tie breaker if there are disagreements. If there are too many disagreements, I’ll tie you both with duct tape and keep you in the closet for a few days. This is all very straight-forward. Look at it and bitch away. This is your one chance.”
“What is this supposed to mean?” Marty was pointing to a line item.
“All of the terms mean don’t be a twat. If you need clarification, ask Ms. Callow. She is a poised, beautiful, smart, competent woman. The list boils down to one item. Treat her with respect. She knows how much money you were making off of her. She’s pissed. There’s a chance you might not need to pay her back out of your pocket, but I would tread easily for now, yes?”
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